


cacio e pepe

by serephemeral



Category: Some Like It Hot (1959)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Genderfluid, M/M, OT4, Polyamory, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephemeral/pseuds/serephemeral
Summary: It turns out that having the right name and piles of cold hard cash means you can buy almost anything. Happiness, however, isn’t for sale, but Daphne is lucky enough to know the recipe.
Relationships: Jerry "Daphne" /Joe "Josephine", Jerry "Daphne"/ Sugar Kane Kowalczyk, Jerry "Daphne"/Osgood Fielding III, Osgood Fielding III/Jerry/Joe/Sugar Kane Kowalczyk
Comments: 57
Kudos: 151
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	cacio e pepe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wonderwanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwanda/gifts).



It turns out that having the right name and piles of cold hard cash means you can buy your way out of _anything._

Daphne learns this when Osgood makes all their lives a hell of a lot easier in the space of a few telegrams and long-distance calls. There are a few old schoolmates of his and some friends of his late father’s in positions of influence, and once he’s made to understand the situation, Osgood is adamant that he doesn’t want some “dreadful gangster” chasing down his - fiancé? Fiancée? (It’s not always evident, even to Daphne, which one is correct. Because now that Daphne exists, it’s so clear that she’s been there for some time, waiting to burst into the world, indelible and effervescent and _real._ And then there are the days when Daphne’s boldness and fluttering lashes and lingerie give way to Jerry’s practicality and realism and stubble. _Subsumed_ isn’t the word, because there’s no doubt in Daphne or Jerry’s mind that they are the same person; it’s more that Daphne is comfortably cocooned while Jerry emerges, and vice versa. The real complication is the days when both of them are out of the cocoon, each vying for nectar and flight, wondering how to share the sunlight.)  
  
There’s a click as Osgood replaces the receiver and looks up at the three of them: Daphne standing next to him at the ornate wooden desk, Sugar on the equally ornate leather sofa across the room, Joe wrapped around Sugar. “Well,” he chirps, smile wide as ever as he snakes one hand around Daphne’s waist, “Daddy’s old friends in Washington seem to think we ought to lay low while they take care of all these nasty boys with guns. Of course, Mama will be worried, but she’ll just have to accept that we’re taking an extended holiday to Bermuda. I’m sure Lord Whats-his-name, that lovely man Daddy used to do business with in London, will give us a _lavish_ welcome. Zowie, the parties he used to throw off the coast of Majorca!” 

It isn’t lost on Daphne that her fiancé seems gifted with a preternaturally buoyant disposition. She can’t recall a time when Osgood has truly seemed rattled. It had annoyed her at first, this tendency to coast on the ease of a life lived free of the complications of being a broke nobody. To Jerry, Osgood had seemed naive at best and stupidly privileged at worst. But the more she gets to know him, the more she finds herself feeling tender towards his relentlessly sanguine attitude. A hard little part of her heart - the part of Jerry that always assumes the worst, that can feel a cold coming on months before it sets in - unfurls and softens in on itself every time Osgood rolls with a punch that comes straight from left field. 

“Oh, Mr. Fielding, however can we thank you?” Sugar coos. She somehow snuggles further into Joe’s embrace as she asks. For his part, Joe leans forward until his nose is touching her hair, nuzzling her platinum-blonde curls. He’s eyeing Daphne and Osgood, and there’s a wariness lurking in his eyes.  
  
“How can we be sure it’s safe?” Joe sounds a little curt, even as he rests his chin on Sugar’s shoulder. “I don’t want her to get hurt.”  
  
Something in his words stings. She _likes_ Sugar; she wants Sugar to be safe. Hell, she wants them _all_ to be safe. She doesn’t know why- 

But that isn’t true. She _does_ know why. It’s because Joe would never say that about Daphne or Jerry; would never pull either close and proclaim in that voice that he doesn’t want them to get hurt. For all that Osgood is odd and oblivious and infuriating, he’s also romantic, sweetly protective, and a damned good kisser. And he _wants_ her. Wants her on the days she’s Daphne; wants him the days he’s Jerry. Fiancée, fiancé; Osgood wants _both_ , and Daphne’s beginning to realize just how much that means to her. To Jerry. To _them_. 

(There used to be nights, after Jerry and Joe played a long set, when they’d get home dead tired. So tired that when Joe made coffee it somehow seemed the most natural thing in the world to drink it and then pick up the bull fiddle and play, melody twining with the sax until the neighbors thumped at the walls and ceilings -and Joe would get that look, his eyes burning, hungry in a way Jerry had never seen him hungry for a dame, and he could swear-) 

Daphne gives her head a little shake and bends down to brush Osgood’s ear with her lips, eliciting a blush. He’s saying something about hiring extra security, waving off Joe’s concerns, but she notices the way his cheeks go slightly pink, the way the corners of his mouth soften. 

Later that night, when she and Osgood are in the master stateroom, door firmly closed and locked, Daphne wearing a scandalously thin organza nightgown, Osgood will blush again. His mouth will be soft against hers, and then hard against her neck, and his hands will find spots neither Daphne nor Jerry knew existed. She will cry out, and he’ll call her name, and then they’ll lay together, panting and sweaty, eyes wide with wonder, and Daphne will think to herself, _I really am falling in love with him._ _  
__  
_But now, standing in the stateroom, watching Joe and Sugar snuggle up, all she can think of is the ostentatious ring on her left ring finger, and Osgood’s blush, and Sugar’s soft voice, and Joe’s gaze, which lingers on her a moment longer than might be expected. And she wonders how the four of them are going to do this thing, this madcap life they’re apparently just going to live together.

* * *

Bermuda is warm and green and lush. Scintillating, Osgood calls it, as he eyes Jerry’s bare chest over the picnic spread. They’re near the water, which is lush in its own way: a vibrant shade of turquoise, and filled with colorful fish and corals and life like Jerry’s never seen.

They’ve been here for three weeks, and he’s finally beginning to breathe easy. He isn’t totally relaxed, but he’s begun to believe that they might really pull this off and make it out relatively unscathed. So when Osgood proposes they spend the day ashore, just the four of them, no society friends, Jerry finds himself agreeing and giving suggestions to Osgood’s chef for what to pack in the picnic hamper. Ham sandwiches with lettuce for himself and Osgood; turkey and brie for Sugar, who had tasted the combination last week and declared it “divine;” and one cucumber and rye, one ham and rye for Joe, pickles on the side, no tomatoes. It’s only after he’s finished that he realizes how absurd it is that he knows all their preferences so well. Of course, he’s lived with Joe long enough that he ought to know these sorts of things, but it strikes him just how deep a mark Osgood and Sugar have made on the rhythms of his mind in such a short time.

One motorboat ride, two games of beach volleyball, and five hard lemonades later, they’re all on the sand, shoes kicked off and sandwiches halfway eaten. 

Jerry’s shirt comes off shortly after they sit down. The sun is relentless, and despite the consistency of the breeze by the water, he’s _hot_ , dammit. The corners of Osgood’s mouth turn up as he strips off his shirt, and Sugar giggles, motioning for Jerry to toss it her way and folding it into a neat little pile next to their various bags and accoutrement. But Joe’s shoulders tense and he looks away. Jerry opens his mouth to say something quick and biting, because really, it isn't like Joe's never seen him naked-

“Pink sand! How do you suppose it got this way?” exclaims Sugar, picking up handfuls and letting it fall through her fingers. 

Joe whispers something in her ear, just low enough so Jerry can’t hear it. She laughs, bubbly and bright, and there’s a moment where the three of them exchange a look - Joe’s eyes meeting Jerry’s, Sugar taking it in, then flashing Jerry a tender, knowing little smile - and then Sugar’s mouth is on Joe’s and Jerry knows there’ll be no talking to either of them for the rest of the day. Or night, for that matter.  
  
“Don’t worry, dear,” Osgood breathes in Jerry’s ear. “We can have our own fun tonight. The moon is full, and I know a cove where we won’t be disturbed.”

* * *

The stars are bright. They seem to be winking down at Jerry, playfully reminding him that they’re watching, that they know what he and Osgood are about to get up to. There are insects, too -- not on the beach, thankfully, but hidden in the depths of the palm stands and mangroves, chirping out symphonies into the night. He feels worlds away from Chicago. He feels worlds away from every place and everything he’s ever known. And somehow, tonight, the newness rolls over him with an ease that makes lying here, half-naked, with Osgood in the same state, feel... _right._

“Osgood,” he says. He means it to come out low and sultry, but he isn’t as good at purring out seductive words as Daphne; instead it just comes out, in his voice, _Jerry’s_ voice, and hangs in the air between them.  
  
“Yes, dear?” Osgood blinks at him. The moonlight brushes his face, a placid curiosity in his eyes, and Jerry wants nothing more than to reach out to that curiosity, to walk up to its edge, draw a breath, and fall in. 

“Are you sure you want…?” He gestures to his own bare chest, his close-cropped hair, the stubble on his chin. “Me? Like this?

  
Osgood laughs, but it’s a soft laugh, and as he closes the space between them he lifts a hand to brush Jerry’s cheek. “You know, darling, the first time I saw you like this, I told you that nobody’s perfect. Impertinent of me, wasn’t it? But you’ve always been forgiving of my faults. Will you forgive me for that? Because -” and now, Osgood’s voice drops to a murmur, and his lips begin to find that spot under Jerry’s ear “-you’re the most perfect being I’ve ever laid eyes on. _Zowie._ ”

The next several moments come in a heady rush of kisses: Jerry’s mouth on Osgood’s, rough and demanding, Osgood all pliant tongue and pleased noises. There’s a frantic scrabbling as trousers come off, and Osgood’s mouth is on his neck, and his fingers are winding around Jerry’s cock. Jerry gasps, cock twitching as his hips arch into his fiancé’s touch.  
  
“You’re so eager,” Osgood chides, mockingly, but his strokes hasten, as if he can’t stop himself from wringing another groan, another rasp of breath and need from Jerry. And then the world melts into a press of hips and fingers and mouths, and the last thing Jerry knows before he gives himself utterly over to desire is that Osgood is mouthing _I love you_ against his lips, and he is mouthing it back. 

* * *

  
Jekyll is different. There are lots of Osgood’s society friends, and with them come exclusive invitations and parties and games of croquet on lawns. Daphne discovers that she likes these soirées, and Osgood’s pockets are deep enough to buy her a custom-made wardrobe for such occasions.  
  
Another thing about having a good name and more money than god, Daphne is learning, is that it guarantees you a certain degree of people looking the other way. Nobody seems to _care_ what Osgood does or what she does, as long as she’s doing it with Osgood. Rich people, Daphne finds, have their own sets of rules. There are the beaches one doesn’t frequent after dark unless one wants certain activities; the parties one leaves before two unless one wants to partake in an orgy; the skirts one doesn’t lift unless one wants to cause an unpleasant and unnecessary scene. 

Once it’s apparent that Daphne, not Jerry, wants to accompany Osgood to the parties, Sugar insists in turn on accompanying her to various fittings and manicures and facials. She insists on helping Daphne learn how to _really_ walk in heels; how to powder her face so that it looks soft and even-toned; how to splash perfume on her wrists and neck so that Osgood will catch whiffs of it if she moves in just the right way.  
  
This particular afternoon, they’re trying on nylons when Daphne notices that Sugar is staring. Daphne’s wearing a new brassiere from Paris, made of lace so delicate she’s terrified that breathing will somehow tear it; that, a new silk slip, and the softest nylons she’s ever felt. She turns to admire herself in the mirror, which displays not only her own curves, but also Sugar, who is draped over the nearest lounge, and whose eyes are raking up and down Daphne’s body. 

She feels herself get hot before the mirror reflects her blush. She can feel her mouth going dry, and as she speaks, her voice comes in an odd, nervous little bark. “Sugar! What are you _doing_?”  
  
“Looking at you. _Taking you in._ ” It should be impossible for every damn thing Sugar says to come out so breathy, so impossibly wide-eyed, so alluring. She’s standing now, her own slip practically dripping off every luscious curve of her body, and she sashays over to Daphne, grinning and batting her lashes. “Why, Daphne, you don’t like it?”  
  
Daphne opens and shuts her mouth. “It’s not that,” she sputters, a little desperately. “It’s just - I thought - I’m a _girl_ right now, Sugar!” 

“Don’t you like girls, Daphne?” 

“Well, yes. But! I -”  
  
“So it’s just that you don’t like _me_?” Sugar is mere inches from her now. There’s a hungry sort of glimmer in her eyes, and she looks ever-so-faintly smug. Dammit. Daphne’s cornered, and Sugar knows it .

“No! I have _eyes_ , Sugar. It’s just - what about Joe?”  
  
Sugar shrugs, languidly draping an arm over Daphne’s shoulder and running a finger along the edge of Daphne’s mouth. “What about him? He and I talked about it. He’s all right with it. He says if I want to kiss a girl, it ought to be you. And I do. Want to kiss you, that is.”  
  
Something about the _it ought be you_ swirls in Daphne’s head for a moment, along with memories of apartments in Chicago and beach picnics in Bermuda. But she pushes it down, pushes it away, because Sugar Kowalczyk is pushing up against her, nose nuzzling Daphne’s nose, lips wanting to claim Daphne’s lips, and Daphne may be proud but she’s _human_ , and so she pushes Joe from her mind and leans down and kisses Sugar on the mouth. 

It’s as like kissing light as Daphne can imagine. They tumble into each other and then down onto the floor, onto the silks and linens and into each other’s softness. Daphne’s breath is in her throat as Sugar’s breasts brush her own chest, as Sugar’s hands cup her face, as Sugar’s teeth graze the junction of her earlobe and neck. “God,” Sugar murmurs, “You’re a dream, do you know that?”

Daphne finds she can’t answer coherently, so she settles for moaning: she moans as Sugar’s fingers slip between the folds of silk and nylon and linger in places that make Daphne’s body tense; she moans -- no, she _whimpers_ \-- when Sugar takes Daphne’s hand and settles it on her clit and tells her to stroke, just so; and she cries out, loudly, when Sugar straddles her and all she knows is warmth, and softness, and the sound of breath coming in ragged gasps. 

When they’re both finished, lying naked and giggly in the pile of discarded silks, Sugar whispers that Daphne is beautiful, the most beautiful woman Sugar’s ever seen. And as absurd a statement as it is, especially coming from Sugar of all people, there’s something about the tenderness in the way she touches Daphne that makes Daphne half believe her. 

* * *

She’s retired to the balcony for some air; the dancing is excellent, but the ballroom is crowded. And even though she’s been wearing heels regularly for a good eight months now, there are still evenings when she’s thrown off-balance more often than not. Still, she’s particularly pleased with this wig - all soft, blonde curls that really look like they could be her own natural hair - and the dress, which has a lovely blue beading that begins at the bodice and extends down, down over the hips and skirt, until it trails into long strands of beads that swish around her calves.  
  
She can see Sugar and Osgood from this vantage point. They’ve partnered up for the latest dance, which isn’t terribly unusual given that the three of them have spent a fair amount of time together over the past few weeks, both in bed and out of it. Sugar is giggling at something Osgood says; he ducks his head slightly, then winks at her. It’s a treat to just watch the both of them, and Daphne settles into a pleasant little reverie until she hears footsteps. 

_Not another one of these society boors_ , she thinks to herself, and turns around to face them, determined to tell off anyone who is hoping to get fresh with her in Osgood’s absence. 

She’s expecting a playboy, a tall, handsome man in an impeccably tailored suit, who has heard the gossip about her and Osgood and has decided to try his luck. She isn’t expecting Joe. 

He is, to be fair, tall, handsome, and wearing an impeccably tailored suit. He’s also just _there,_ hovering, one hand awkwardly shoved in his pocket, one hand running through his dark hair. Their eyes meet, and for a long moment, neither says anything at all. And then Joe’s gaze wanders down her body, slowly, purposefully, before wandering back up again.  
  
“Hi,” he murmurs.  
  
“Excuse me?” Daphne snaps. “Not one word to me in the car this evening, not one word to me at dinner, and now you look me over like some dandy trying to get fresh, and _that’s_ the first thing you say? ‘Hi?’”  
  
“Daph.” Joe’s voice is softer than it has any right to be, soft enough that Daphne feels her temper begin to properly flare. Because someone who trades in looks and snark and the shared intimacy of a former life and can’t be bothered to _talk_ about it doesn’t deserve to speak to her that softly. 

“What?” She snaps, her tone irritable. “What do you want, Joe?”  
  
She expects him to make a joke about her wig, her outfit, her makeup, and then disappear back into the crowd inside. She expects him to say something - anything - and then walk away, like he always does. She doesn’t expect him to close the distance between them, pull her to him, and kiss her. 

She’s always suspected that Joe is a good kisser. Why else would half the dames in Chicago give him second and third and fourth chances? But it absolutely infuriates her to find out that she’s right. That he is, in point of fact, an excellent kisser. It’s so good that for a single split second she finds herself enthusiastically kissing him back, and then she remembers how furious she is.  
  
It’s over as quickly as it began. They fall back from one another, both trembling a little. They stay that way for at least a minute, chests heaving, staring at one another; there’s a storm of passion in Joe’s dark eyes, but he doesn’t move a muscle, seemingly rooted to the marble floor of the balcony. 

“The hell?!” Daphne finally hisses, finding her voice. “The _nerve_ of you, Joe! I swear to god. What the hell was that?”  
  
Joe folds his arms, pouting. “What did it feel like? I think you’d know what it’s like to be kissed, _Daphne._ ”  
  
“Don’t be an ass,” she snarls. “You can’t just come out here and - and -”  
  
“And get fresh with you?” he says, sounding stung. “I just thought...look. I didn’t mean anything by it.”  
  
“You didn’t _mean anything_ by it?” She can hear herself getting more incensed, but she doesn’t care. “I see. So I’m just some broad that you think you can get fresh with and not _mean anything_ by. Because we’ve known each other forever? Because of what I have with Sugar? Is that it, Joe? If you think you’re entitled to me just because -”  
  
“I don’t think that!” Joe’s sounding temperamental now, looking frustrated. “That’s not it at all, Daphne. Of course you’d be impossible about it. You always are.”  
  
“You know what?” she snaps, brushing past him. “If you’re going to be like this, I don’t want to talk about it.” 

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Okay, so we won’t talk about it. Fine.” 

She doesn’t look back as she returns to the glitter and noise of the party inside.

* * *

Jerry assumes they will talk about it, at some point. The two of them. The four of them. 

They don’t.

* * *

“Delightful little dish, had my chef learn it the last time we wintered in the Mediterranean. The Italians call it _cacio e pepe._ Means ‘cheese and pepper;’ lands softly on the tongue at first, but then there’s a little ZING to it! Spice of life, my dear.” Osgood winks, then raises a fork that is positively dripping with the stuff to Jerry’s mouth. Jerry leans forward and wraps his lips around it, purposefully pausing for a beat before beginning to chew.

“ _Pepe!_ ” Sugar squeals, delightedly, her eyes going wide. “I taste it! Oh, it’s just divine. Don’t you think so, darlings?” She looks from Joe to Jerry, grinning as she prepares to take another bite.  
  
There’s a gentleness to the way the corners of Joe’s mouth turn up whenever Sugar talks, but particularly when she expresses wide-eyed wonder, that isn’t lost on Jerry. It’s there now, that almost-smile, for a fleeting moment, and then Joe rolls his eyes and looks directly at Jerry and Osgood and says “I don’t know. It’s good, sure, but what’s so special about a little cheese and pepper? ”  
  
“That’s the thing!” Osgood chirps, too engrossed in watching Jerry’s mouth to notice the strain in Joe’s voice. “You’d think it’s simple, but my chef declares it’s the devil to make. Took him nine tries before he got it halfway right. Takes a special sort of person to pull it off. But when you do -- _zowie!_ ” He looks at Jerry, adoration etched in every line of his wide smile. And as Jerry leans in to kiss Osgood, he almost misses the small disdainful _hmph_ Joe gives. He almost avoids glancing up to meet Joe’s gaze, which is _burning_ as he looks at Jerry, and he almost forgets that Joe’s looked at Daphne the same way at the past three parties they’ve been to. He almost forgets the nights in Chicago, and the beach in Bermuda, and the kiss. Almost. 

Joe’s bluster and swagger and pride are almost enough to make Jerry and Daphne believe that there will only ever be the awkwardness between them, and the tension of having known each other so well, having been through so much together, having been so _close_ only to never -

But then there’s the way Joe looks at him, and the burn of pepper on his tongue. 

* * *

The rain is coming down in torrents, and it’s just Jerry’s luck to be caught in it. He’s never been much for tennis, but Daphne has a growing appreciation for it, so he’s learning. Of course the Fielding family home in Connecticut has sprawling tennis courts - _of course_ it does - so naturally he and Sugar take a go at it together most days. Today, she sprints off to the house at the first serious sign of rain, and Jerry stays behind to put the gear away in the family clubhouse. By the time he’s done, it’s pouring.  
  
His shorts and shirt are soaked through, and the rain is heavy enough that it’s a little hard to make out the mansion. So at first, it’s easy to believe that his eyes are playing tricks on him when he sees a dark sort of blob a ways off in the rain; a blob that moves quickly, and comes more into focus as it nears him on the path.  
  
It’s Joe. He’s wearing shorts of his own, and a tight athletic tee, and his running shoes. His hair is soaked, and the water is rushing down from it over his face, coming off of his muscular body in rivulets and streams. He looks absolutely gorgeous, and in spite of everything, Jerry finds himself rooted to the spot. And Joe clearly sees him, too; as he nears, he slows to a jog and then to a walk, and, as Jerry finally has the presence of mind to start turning away, he holds up a hand.  
  
“Jerry! Jerry, please.” There’s an urgency in his tone, a pleading sort of honesty Jerry hasn’t heard in a long time. He desperately wants to do this; he desperately wants to do anything _but_ this.  
  
“Joe,” he says, fixing his hands to his hips. “Must we? Right now? Is this really the time? Two more minutes of this and they can make me into a reservoir in the Sahara!”  
  
Joe swallows hard, but he grins a little all the same. “Please, Jerry.” He shrugs, scattering water droplets onto the already-soaked grass, and crosses the distance between them. “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry.”  
  
Jerry rolls his eyes, feeling the rain pelt against his thighs and chest. “What is it with you and timing, anyway?”  
  
“I’m trying to _apologize,_ Jerry.”  
  
“And I’m saying, you couldn’t have done it inside? In front of a fire? Or, you know, at a time when the second flooding of the earth isn’t upon us?” He knows he’s being difficult, but everything always comes easy to Joe, and Jerry doesn’t care if he’s being a little spiteful when he thinks _not this time. This time, you have to work for it._

“Jerry.” Joe’s voice is quiet. More than quiet: tender, and laced with regrets. “Do you want to go inside?”  
  
“Look,” Jerry snaps. “Just say whatever it is you have to say, alright? Then I can stop standing in the puddles that used to be my shoes.”  
  
Joe bites his bottom lip - damn him for having the uncanny ability to make everything he does look attractive - and scuffs one very wet foot in the mud of the Fielding lawn path. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. For everything. For all the times I was an ass in Chicago and Florida, and arrogant, and full of myself; for not talking to you about it, and asking Sugar to tell you things for me, and assuming you’d get it; for kissing you without asking. I’m sorry, Jerry. ”  
  
The rain is coming down harder, and Jerry has to step closer still to see and hear Joe over the noise of wind and water. “You _are_ an ass,” he says. “Why now?”  
  
Joe sighs. “I told you; I can’t do it anymore. I - look, Jerry, I know I pretend to be confident and smooth and together, but I come apart inside every time I look at you. I look at you, and I don’t know how you _do it_. How do you do it?”

  
Jerry makes a noise of exasperation. “Do what, exactly? You’re not making any sense, Joe.”

  
Joe begins to pace, mud splattering up his legs as he strides back and forth, gesticulating into the rain. “How you _live_! How you live every day with the confidence to put on your nylons and wig and kiss Sugar at parties; how you go out with Osgood unshaven and in your trousers and kiss him on a yacht in front of his friends. Dammit, Jerry, I look at you every day and I think about what a coward I am, and how brave you are. I - I want - but you deserve better…” 

An echo comes back to Jerry, pattering down as if it’s carried in the rain. “ _There are laws, conventions -- it’s just not being done!”_

And suddenly, he doesn’t know if he wants to tackle Joe or kiss him; he doesn’t know if he wants to take Joe in his arms and comfort him, and say that he’s not brave, he’s just foolhardy enough to live his life the only way he knows how, or if he wants to yell at Joe to get out of his sight. 

They stand like that for a long time, chests heaving, eyes locked on one another. When Jerry finally breaks the silence, he speaks slowly, purposefully, without looking away.  
  
“I’m not brave. Well, maybe I am. All I know is, I can’t lie about it anymore. I have to live my life the way I want, or die trying.” He pauses for a moment. “The money helps, of course. Not that you’ve ever properly thanked me for landing Osgood, either.”  
  
Joe nods, and then laughs, a cautious, hopeful sort of laugh. “I am a heel, aren’t I? Still, if there’s any way I can make it up to you... any way I _can_ thank you, Jerry…” His voice goes low, shot through with contrition and suggestion and hope.  
  
Jerry breathes deeply, then closes the gap between them to rest his hands on Joe’s shoulders. “If you really want to make it up to me, stop being so damn proud and _kiss me_ , you idiot.”  
  


Trepidation flickers across Joe’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by determination and desire. He grabs Jerry, pulling their wet bodies against each other, and then his mouth is on Jerry’s, claiming his lips in a rough, passionate kiss. Joe is all teeth and tongue and noises as Jerry palms his ass and grinds their hips together; and then Joe is shoving him down on the ground, his knee between Jerry’s legs, one hand tangled in Jerry’s hair and the other snaking around the small of his back to anchor their hips together. Jerry can feel himself hardening against Joe’s thigh and panting as he arches into Joe’s hands and hips; and then it’s all frenzied thrusts into Joe’s hand, and Joe’s frantic groans as Jerry begins to stroke his cock, and loud, eager cries as they come, hard and fast and furious against each other.

They lay there, soaking wet in the grass and mud, for what feels like hours. Joe lowers his forehead to Jerry’s, and they both laugh, and then Jerry pulls him in for another kiss, this one slower and reverent.  
  
“Hi,” Joe breathes, beaming down at him.  
  
“Hi,” Jerry murmurs, nuzzling into the warmth of his chest.  
  
“What happens now?” It comes out in a whisper, as if Joe is afraid that speaking too loudly may shatter the moment, or reveal it to be nothing more than a passing dream.  
  
Jerry just pulls him closer, running a hand through his wet, dark curls. “Whatever we want, baby. Whatever we want.”  
  
  


* * *

Mme. Bisset is, by all accounts, the finest seamstress in Paris, so it’s no accident that the four of them find themselves in her atelier, sitting for measurements amongst silks and laces and crinolines. 

Fortunately, one of them speaks French - the older of the two brunettes in the group, who is introducing herself as “Osg- ah, Ophelia. Ophelia Fielding; and my sisters, Daphne and Sugar Fielding; and our cousin, Josephine Fielding. We’re _charmed_ to be here, my dear! Just charmed. We hear the most wonderful things about your work, and we understand that designing for women of, ah, our _sort_ is a speciality of yours.”  
  
It’s bound to be a delightful afternoon, full of dress patterns and fabrics and fittings; but now, as Ophelia chatters away with the seamstress, Daphne finds herself seated between Sugar and Josephine, who both have their arms around her. She can smell the traces of perfume around their necks, and she flushes slightly as she thinks about what the four of them are likely to get up to that night.  
  
It turns out that having the right name and piles of cold hard cash means you can buy almost anything. Happiness, it turns out, isn’t for sale; but Daphne is lucky enough to know the recipe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest Yuletide recipient, I had so much fun writing this fic for you! Some Like It Hot was one of the first films I ever really fell in love with, and revisiting it in the context of ot4 fic has been an absolute delight. 
> 
> When I started thinking about what I might write, I was really captivated by the idea of Daphne/Jerry's genderfluidity as a starting point for exploration. From there I wondered: what happens between Daphne (and Jerry) and Osgood? Daphne/Jerry and Sugar? Between Daphne/Jerry and Joe -- definitely the relationship I envision having the most agonizing, slowburning tension of the ot4? 
> 
> I have no idea why, but the cacio e pepe scene was one of the first things that occurred to me, and it stuck so firmly in my mind as a scene and as a title that I just went with it! 
> 
> It was such a delight to explore the relationship between these four. I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing! Happy, happy Yuletide to you!


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